


Tell The Truth.

by sunflower_rain



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Slam Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_rain/pseuds/sunflower_rain
Summary: I wrote a poem for English class. About things I haven't been able to tell many people.





	Tell The Truth.

“Tell the truth.”

The truth is that I was bullied from when I was four to when I was seven. Slapped, mocked, and laughed at, the people who I was supposed to be looking up to were constantly looking down on me, sneering and calling me names.

The truth is that everyone heard no one listened when I pleaded for help.

The truth is that I’ve been violated four times. People who, again, I looked up to or was close to made me feel isolated and powerless.

The truth is I couldn’t speak up because there was a snake coiled tightly around my throat. “Sssssshh…..”

The truth is that I like my family almost as much as I like drinking milk 3 months after it expired.

The truth is that I’m pansexual. I don’t fall in love with men or women, I fall in love with people.

The truth is that I do drugs. Not illegal ones, but pills prescribed for severe depression, anxiety, and insomnia.

The truth is I’ve attempted suicide 6 times but

The truth is that no knife was sharp enough to cut out thoughts implanted in me.

The truth is that I’m in a never-ending cycle of chasing after my ideal perfection. Jealousy and insecurity are my best friends. Deeper and deeper they pull me into a bottomless abyss of unrealistic standards I struggle to satisfy.

The truth is that I look to the mirror for comfort, every day asking it the same question: Am I pretty yet? No, it whispers back, dropping my last shred of confidence and hope to the floor where they shatter like glass that will cut the soles of my feet. The deep gashes bleed out my sanity, making it harder to walk through the trials of life.

The truth is that I get made fun of for who I like. Not because I can feel the same love as I do for one gender as I do the other, but because many of the people who catch my eye aren’t the same race as I. If I like blue M&Ms the same as red M&Ms, then why can’t I like sentient beings with dreams and emotions the same even if they look different on the outside? The ones that eat, sleep, breathe, love, laugh, cry and bleed like I do?

The truth is that I have anger issues.

The truth is that I have people absent from my life that I never stop thinking about.

The truth is that memories of them rip through carefully constructed emotional barriers like a boat through water.

The truth is that I am Friend B. A liability, forgotten until no ultimatum is left, like a broken crayon people carefully avoid until they can’t find a better one.

The truth is that I am a toy that people play with until the all the tricks are overplayed and I become old news.

The truth is that I have an extreme fear of breaking a rule or not doing something correctly. If I get yelled at I will cry and

The truth is that if someone is upset with me I will have a panic attack.

The truth is that if I eat my stomach knots up and I feel excruciating pain, like a knife wrapped in barbed wire is being twisted in my gut. Even if it isn’t Satan’s Waterfall Week.

The truth is that I can’t talk to people without getting a headache. Butterflies in my stomach catch fire and the smoke chokes me along with the awkward silence.

The truth is that I lie about what I like, afraid to step out of line.

The truth is I filter out parts you wouldn’t like until I’m left with a whisper of who I am. I lay down at the end of the day, wondering in my restless sleep what happened to the innocent, sassy, happy girl I used to be.

The truth is I’ve always secretly wanted to be a model…. even though

The truth is I know I’ll never be skinny, pretty, perfect enough to.

The truth is that I sing when I’m scared. Music has always been there for me even when the people who promised “forever” weren’t. It was a torch that lit the path towards healing.

The truth is that BILLIONS of people have harder lives than me. I am overprivileged, and still I complain. The money used on therapy sessions and books and art supplies could change a homeless man’s future.

The truth is that I’ve been lied to, cheated on, hit, shoved, and screamed at by people. And 

The truth is those same people I slowly get drawn back to like ocean waves that lazily leave and return to shore.

The truth is I don’t know when or how to stop, and

The truth is that I let them walk all over me like I am a cheap welcome mat bought to cover up a mistake. I’m more submissive than a dog that has been abused and I can’t keep personal things to myself. I am a book open for the world to see, my pages that are torn and frayed and words that melt off of the page.

The truth is that I write songs and I want to be in a band.

The truth is I am basic and cliché and everything else you say, but I have huge potential to be so much more but

The truth is that I never fully invest myself to anything because

The truth is that failure lurks at every corner and haunts my mind.

The truth is that expectations of making something worth noticing are like handcuffs constantly chafing me, cold, unforgiving, and always tightening.

The truth is I am sick of these self-loathing/self-pitying statements, but the walls around my mind have been knocked down by the crisp feel of the paper on which I write. All I can do is surrender to the urge, a consistent need to feel a pencil etching words, the same letters repeated over and over but each pattern offers something new that maybe will finally expose the truth.


End file.
